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by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1803, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, New York, Romance, The Grange - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: "This morning my beloved Eliza I leave Albany for Claverack, my health greatly mended and I hope to make but a short stay there. My plan is to go to Poughkepsie and there embark. I shall be glad to find that my dear little Philip is weaned, if circumstances have rendered it prudent. It is of importance to me to rest quietly in your bosom. Adieu my beloved." -Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, October 1803Alexander arrives home from his trip in the fall of 1803 and enjoys his longed for quiet, peaceful moment with his beloved wife.__Sweet Hamliza and Hamilton Family Fluff





	Home

**The Grange, November 1803**

Eliza lay still in the dark, fists gripping at her blankets and heart pounding in her chest as she strained to hear over the noise of the storm. Rain roared against the roof, loud as a waterfall, making it impossible to listen for the subtle sound that had first roused her, but she’d have sworn she heard the front door opening. No one in the house would be going out at this time of night, and in this weather no less. Could they have an intruder?

Footsteps carried up from the stairs, soft at first, then growing louder. The rhythm, martial and familiar, made her sigh with relief. Pushing her blankets aside, she slid from the bed and peeked out into the hallway. She could see the golden light of a candle dancing in the stairway, just out of sight.

“Alexander?”

Sure enough, his distinctive profile emerged at the head of the stairs. He looked pale in the candlelight, his hair and clothes sodden from the rain. His breath sounded heavier than usual from the stairs. A smile brightened his face, though, the corners of his eyes bunching. “My beloved Betsey.”

“You’re soaked,” she said. “Did you take the wagon all the way from the city?”

“I wanted to be home.” When she sighed at him, his smile widened. “Would you have rather I stayed in town? Didn’t you miss me at all?”

“You know I did,” she said, stepping closer to pull him into an embrace. She’d been frantic with worry over him through his whole trip up to Albany. An attack of stomach spasms had made him so ill and weak before he left he could hardly sit up, and his letters home to her had made it clear he’d remained under the weather for the duration of his travels. Having him back safe in her arms released a knot of anxiety she’d been carrying in her chest. “I always want to be with you. But I’d just as soon have you warm and dry, especially when you’ve been sick.”

“I’m better now,” he said.

She leaned back to scrutinize his face, then gave him a disbelieving look. “Are you?”

“Mostly,” he amended. “So long as I don’t eat anything.”

And he wondered why she worried over him. Shaking her head, she leaned up to give him a kiss. She could feel the damp from his clothes soaking into her nightgown where they were pressed together. “You need to change. You’ll catch your death in those wet things.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

She stroked a hand over his cheek, a hint of rough stubble scratching lightly at her palm. “I’ll go fetch you a towel and some tea. That should help get some warmth back into you.”

“What ever would I do without you, my angel,” he whispered near her ear, stealing another kiss before pulling away, surrendering the candle to her as he did.

She hurried down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen. Efficiently setting the kettle to boil, she pulled some towels from the linen closet and started to set up a tray to bring up to him. He must have spent the better part of the day traveling, she guessed, which meant he likely hadn’t eaten much, if anything. Some bread and cheese joined the pot of piping hot chamomile tea, all simple fare for his delicate digestion.

Giggles and soft chatter carried down from the second floor as she made her way back to him. Though the children ought to have been asleep, she couldn’t help smiling at their joyous sounds. The whole house had a heartbeat when Alexander was at home, a thrum of life that only came with his presence no matter how many visitors, cheery games, and silly stories tried to fill the void he left.  

“And then we went down to the dock with our fishing poles,” she heard William saying breathlessly, no doubt trying to cram in a report of every moment his father had missed. Candlelight spilled out of the boys’ bedroom at the end of the hall.

She placed the tray on the bedside table of the master bedroom and looked in vain for Alexander’s wet clothing. He must not have changed before waking up the little ones, she realized with a heavy frown. Laying the towels on the bed, she started for the boys’ bedroom.

“I shot a duck with your hunting rifle, Papa,” Jamie interrupted William, voice filled with pride. “We had it for dinner last night. Mr. Morton went out with us, and Mama said I could use it if I was careful—”    

“Papa, Papa,” William insisted, barreling over Jamie’s story. Eliza paused in the doorway and saw William had attached himself to Alexander’s hip, squeezing him tight in an embrace. “I caught a really big fish, Papa. The biggest ever.”

“That’s wonderful, Jamie,” Alexander said.  

“That fish was tiny,” Johnny contradicted William at the same time, staring jealously at his younger brother from his bed. “Alex told you it was so small you could have used it for bait.”

“You’re supposed to embellish, John. That’s the fun of a fish story,” Alexander said, good humor infusing his voice as he hugged William to him with one arm.

“Hi Mama,” Alex said, looking around his father to her.

Alexander looked around and gave her a sheepish smile. “I was only going to poke my head in. They were already awake, I swear.”

“The rain is loud,” William said, by way of explanation.

“I know,” Alexander agreed, swinging William up into his arms to the boy’s great delight. “Much more of it and I would have been able to swim home.”

“Will you tell a story, Papa?” Johnny requested, hugging his knees up to his chest as Alexander placed William back on his bed.

“Yeah, a story!” William agreed, bouncing excitedly on his mattress.

“Papa needs to change out his wet clothes,” Eliza said, “Or he’s going to catch cold.”

“I’ll tell a story tomorrow,” Alexander promised, kissing William on the forehead and moving over to Johnny to kiss him as well.

“You’ll have to tell two stories,” Johnny said. “If you make us wait, you’ll owe interest.”

Alexander gave a snort of amusement even as he nodded, glancing over at her in shared mirth. “All right then, two stories.” He finished kissing the boys good night, and said as he tapped the door closed, “Good night my little lambs.”

“Night, Papa,” came back in a responding chorus.

“I owe them interest,” Alexander said sotto voce as they moved back towards the master bedroom, his chest vibrating with silent laughter.

“He’s definitely your son,” she said, grinning as well.

His laughter mixed with a rough cough as he headed for the dressing room, plucking up a towel from the bed and peeling off his coat as went.

Her smile dimmed at the sound. “I told you to change right away,” she scolded gently.

“You think I caught a chill in the intervening five minutes?” he asked, amusement still audible.

She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her from the dressing room. Pouring out his tea for him, she said, “I brought you up some things, when you’ve finished changing.”

“Is one of them a new digestive system?”

She smiled wryly and shook her head. “Alas, no.”

“Disappointing.”

“How did your arbitration go?” she asked.

He grunted and muttered something about childish nonsense. That well, then. He gave another cough and emerged in his nightshirt, ruffling the towel over his now loose hair. “What’d you bring me?”

“Tea, bread, and some cheese.” He wrinkled his nose. “You need to eat. And I don’t like the sound of that cough. I really wish you’d waited until tomorrow to come home.”

He sighed as he sat heavily on the bed. “I wanted my own bed.”

“The bed in town is yours, as much as this one.”

“It’s not my bed if you’re not in it,” he retorted.

“You’re immensely frustrating,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “But you’re cute.”

He smiled smugly.

She handed him the tea, and sat beside him while he drank and made an effort on the food. When he coughed yet again, she rubbed a hand over his back. He’d just barely recovered from being ill; she hated to think he’d contracted something else on his travels. “How long have you been coughing?”

 “I don’t know.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I feel like I’m falling apart in my old age.”

“Your old age? You talk like you’re a hundred.”

“I feel like I’m a hundred.”

There was a slump to his shoulders she hadn’t noticed until now, a thinly veiled melancholy appearing in his eyes. He’d written to her once that he felt a more than usual gloom at the bottom of his soul,1  and the poetic phrase had stuck in her mind. However outwardly cheerful he appeared, a latent sadness lurked within him, and only seemed to grow as time rendered it’s blows upon them.

She scooted backward on the bed to kneel behind him. His white shirt was damp from his skin, translucent enough that she could see some of his darker freckles through the thin material. She traced her fingers across his back in familiar constellations: a diamond over his left shoulder, a castle turret over his right shoulder blade, a strangely shaped key along his spine. She’d memorized those patterns in the earliest days of their marriage, gazing at his body with sleepy wonder the way she’d gazed at clouds as a young girl.

He melted under her touch.

“Has Phil been weened?” he asked, eyelids drooping.

“Yes,” she said. Her fingers went to his hair as he pushed backwards and sideways, pinning her down against the pillows with his head pressed to her sternum. She’d been too sore for him to lie like this while she was nursing Phil, but it had always been his favorite position, offering, as he phrased it, a sweet asylum from care and pain.2

He relaxed against her and hummed with contentment.

“I planted the apple trees like you asked,” she said.

“Hopefully they won’t have floated away,” he quipped.  

“And Tuff finished the temporary fence.”3

He yawned. “We’ll walk over tomorrow and take a look, if the rain lets up.”

The wind howled eerily over the general roar of the rain, knocking the shudders together as it beat against the house. The whole second floor swayed under the force. Alexander must have felt her tense, because he shifted his head to press a kiss to the underside of her jaw.

“Not to worry, my love. Just the wind. It’s no match for our house.” He always spoke of the Grange with such pride, she considered, as though he’d laid each brick and beam with his own two hands.  

“No,” she agreed, gathering him closer to her. “No match at all.”

Despite the mighty gale, the shudders held fast and the walls stood firm, keeping the storm at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 AH to EH, 24 May 1800  
> 2 AH to EH, 11 November 1798  
> 3 AH to EH, 14 October 1803
> 
> A general fluffy hamliza piece inspired by Hamilton letter to Eliza dated October 1803. After leaving home ill, Hamilton sent several letters to Eliza in October 1803 assuring her he was recovering even as he clearly longed to be home with her. I really wanted to write the loving, peaceful moment when he finally was able to lie his head on her bosom and rest. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always very, very much appreciated!!


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